17. Wine, poetryvirtue, as you wish
Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish
That night, Louna didn’t sleep.
She’d spent the evening on her masquerade designs, and after contacting the various shops and artisans required to turn her plans into reality, she enjoyed a lovely meal with Jean-Claude and Philippe before retiring to shower.
A few hours later, she slipped back into the kitchen to make a late-night pot of coffee, then sat before the shuttered loft windows with her sketchbook and did not draw.
The earbud was silent.
Lindsey had gone to sleep hours before—or at least, he’d claimed to.
His guard had returned around seven with another sandwich, and Lindsey escaped the encounter without incurring new bruises.
But he was tired, and he turned in early, saying he would take out the earbud for a while to get some “actual rest.”
It was clearly an invitation for Louna and Tennyson to talk, but Tennyson was still exploring the grounds, and he kept his reports succinct. Louna tried to broach a few different subjects, but never managed to draw him into a real conversation.
“Lindsey seems to be warming up,” she said finally, playing her last card. “He has a good sense of humor, at least.”
“It’s fake,” Tennyson said.
Louna blew out a breath. “His humor is fake?”
“It’s a front,” Tennyson amended, his words curt. “He won’t shut us out now that he’s asked for help, but he hasn’t changed his mind about things.”
About Tennyson, he meant. Lindsey hadn’t forgiven him.
Louna only hummed in response, hoping he would take comfort from her doubt.
As the night wore on and his communication became more infrequent, Louna tried to distract herself from the presence she could feel, but not hear.
She knew he was listening, and she could think of nothing else to say.
With each long hour, new questions turned in her mind, and Tennyson offered no answers.
Do you still want me to leave? Will you tell me to go once we’ve freed Lindsey?
Do I want to stay beyond that?
She’d finally gone back to bed around three that morning, but tossed and turned until five, when she finally rose, dressed, and went out into the loft with her empty mug in hand. Once again, Jean-Claude was in the kitchen, and Louna kissed his cheek as she made her way to the counter.
“Bless you,” she said, rinsing her cup and filling it with the hot coffee he’d already made.
“Late night?” he asked.
Louna waved an unconcerned hand. “There was much to prepare. It’s always so much work to put on a party.”
“Yes,” Jean-Claude said. He was whisking a bowl of eggs, and he let the wire scrape the sides for a few beats before adding, “There is nothing like a dance to preoccupy one’s thoughts.”
Louna didn’t answer. The conspiratorial hint in his tone had nettled her, and she took a sip of coffee to cover her reaction.
“Romania is a long way to come just to throw a party,” Jean-Claude went on.
Louna leveled a look at him. “You came just as far.”
“Ah,” Jean-Claude said. “But not for love.”
“A kind of love, I think,” Louna said.
Jean-Claude tilted his head, thinking. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “For Tennyson and Lindsey both. Philippe and I owe them a great deal.”
Louna leaned her elbows on the island. He’d mentioned that back in Paris, when she’d first met him and Philippe. “You said something about owing your flower shop to them,” she said.
The whisk scraped again, and Jean-Claude nodded.
“When Philippe and I left the military, we decided to open a little flower shop. Our grandmother was a devoted gardener, and she taught us both to love growing things. We thought it was the best way to honor her memory. But every time we tried to take out a loan, we were denied. Finally we decided to pool our assets and purchase a building outright, but we were outbid every time. We began to think our dream would never come true. And then...”
He paused to set his whisk aside and pulled a dish of butter from the refrigerator.
He sliced a generous chunk and dropped it into a pan waiting on the stove, turning the heat on low as he continued his story.
“And then one day, we got a call from the bank saying that we needed to come down to sign the paperwork. We did not know what they meant. None of our offers had been accepted. We assumed there had been a mistake, but we went in anyway, hoping.”
As the butter melted, Jean-Claude poured the eggs into the pan and gave them a few gentle stirs.
“When we got to the bank, we found the deed to a shop in downtown Paris, already signed over to us, all fees paid. We said there must have been some mistake, but the mortgage agent was quite clear. She said the store had been paid for completely. We asked who the seller was, and she told us, but it was a man we had never heard of. He lived out of the country and did not leave a way to get ahold of him. The only thing we had was a message attached to the file.”
He paused, letting the natural drama of the moment sweeten.
Louna leaned forward, waiting, and he beamed at her. “The note read simply ‘From Lindsey and Tennyson’.”
“They bought you a flower shop?” Louna gasped, fully caught up in the story.
The eggs sizzled in the pan, and Jean-Claude reached for a small bowl full of chopped onions and peppers.
“We did not know how to thank them. We could not—we hadn’t spoken since they left Paris, and we had no idea where they were stationed.
We tried to track them down, as well as the man who had sold the shop, but they had all disappeared. ”
“What a gift,” Louna said, sipping her mug. “You must have made quite the impression on them.”
“That’s the joy of it,” Jean-Claude said.
“We had not. At least, we did not know we had. We were friends, yes, but had not been particularly close. They had no call to give such a gift. Years later, Tennyson returned to Paris, after we had become established. We tried to thank him, but he would accept nothing for his generosity. Finally, he allowed us to give him the promise of a favor.”
“That’s why you helped with the flowers at my gala,” Louna said. “He called in his favor.”
A stir of warmth threatened to thaw the confusion still clinging inside of her.
Such a magnificent gesture—the purchase of a shop for friends he had left behind in Paris—and instead of receiving their gratitude for himself, he had used it to help her.
When the original florist she’d hired for the gala at her museum had failed, Tennyson had saved the day.
“It is also why we came here,” Jean-Claude said, adding a bowl of cooked ham to his eggs. “We did not get a chance to thank Lindsey, but now that he is in trouble, we can finally repay our debt. We owe our livelihood to these men. Our legacy. There is nothing we would not do for them.”
Louna took a drink, processing his words.
Had Tennyson heard them? He still had not spoken, but she doubted he would take out his earbud while there was a chance that Lindsey might need help.
That question occurred to her again—the question she’d been wrestling with on and off since they’d met in Paris.
How well did she know Tennyson? On paper, she did not.
She knew only a little of his past, and had spent less than a week in his presence.
In that time, he had lied to her, fought her friends, and stolen from her.
He had also saved her life twice. Now, he was risking his life again, desperate to save a man who had given every appearance of wanting to cut ties for good.
Louna had always been good at reading people.
She knew what kinds of actions spoke to a person’s true character, and which had been put on for show. Tennyson was terrible at show.
Maybe she knew him better than she thought.
“So now you know why we are here,” Jean-Claude said, the sly glint returning to his eye. “But you, ma belle—you did not even know Lindsey. Why then did you come?”
“You know why I came,” Louna said.
Jean-Claude turned back to the stove. “I do. Do you?”
She looked away, making a show of drinking her coffee. She’d come to keep Tennyson from rekindling an old flame, and to research Harlow’s ring. But that wasn’t why she was staying. Lindsey needed help, and Louna couldn’t abandon him. The Verdier brothers were still here as well. And Tennyson…
There was no point in denying that she liked him, but was that enough? She’d come for a quick adventure, not a months-long trial. She had a life to get back to. Responsibilities. Just how long was she willing to stay?
Philippe emerged from the bedroom then, and Louna avoided both brothers as she finished her coffee and enjoyed Jean-Claude’s scrambled eggs.
His words wore at her thoughts as they prepared for the day, but she pushed them repeatedly back into the recesses of her mind.
This was not the time for soul-searching or motive-examining.
She had a party to plan.
Within the hour, they had finished their breakfast and were on the road to Corb Castle in their newly appropriated van.
The flowers Jean-Claude had negotiated for were already tucked inside the refrigerated compartment in the back.
Philippe nearly cried when they found it parked in the garage beneath the Nest.
“Who is responsible?” he asked, his voice trembling. “Who must I buy it from?”
Louna promised to get the information for him, and sent a text to tell Ilya not to get rid of the title. Lindsey checked in then as well, reporting an uncomfortable but quiet night in his little cell.
“No breakfast though,” he grumbled. “Gonna have to dock a star on their review.”
Tennyson gave an uneventful account of his night and went silent again, so Louna focused her attention on the various texts and phone calls she still had to make to coordinate party details, and pushed her conflicted feelings to the bottom of her to-do list.
Be drunk, Charlotte had said. Drunk on adventure.
It was good advice. After all, how often did one get a chance to plan a masquerade in an actual castle?
By the time they arrived at Corb Castle, her mood had brightened.
Her dress would be ready tonight, and the material she needed for Tennyson’s and Lindsey’s costumes would be waiting for her when she returned to the Nest. The morning was overcast, but that only added to the Gothic atmosphere surrounding the castle. She couldn’t have planned it better.
Jean-Claude parked the van in the lower lot, and Louna led him and Philippe up to the main grounds.
Once again, the keep was a bustle of activity, and she recognized most of the same faces from the day before.
Cristian met her at the door of the main hall with a cry of mixed anguish and hope, and handed a box to a passing assistant so he could grasp both her hands in his.
“Maria!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Thank God you have not abandoned me. What have you found? Can my vision be salvaged?”
Louna squeezed his fingers. “I told you to leave everything to me, did I not?”
“You did,” Cristian said hopefully. His eyes were a bright, shining amber, and he gazed at her as though she held the key to his survival. Impulsively, she reached out and patted his smooth cheek, feeling a sudden fondness for him.
“You have nothing to worry about,” she said. When he leaned into her touch, she stepped back and waved a hand at the Verdier brothers. “You see? I have already brought you florists. Everything is going to be just fine. Did you bring the harpsichord?”
A cloud of frustration chased the happiness from Cristian’s face. “It was delivered, thank goodness, but I have nothing else. When we went to leave last night, we found all our tires had been slashed. Can you believe it?”
Louna made a dismayed noise. “All? No! Do you know who did it?”
“We have no cameras outside the grounds,” Cristian said bitterly. “My father will not allow it. He says cameras compromise the integrity of the historical site.”
Interesting. It could not be coincidence that a man who had worked with Harlow did not want cameras on his property.
“I’m sure it was only teenagers,” Louna soothed, pairing her words with a gentle touch to Cristian’s hand.
“Nobody else would dare to vandalize your property. It had to be someone who didn’t know who you were. ”
Cristian nodded, softening. “Yes, I think so. Well, at least we have the harpsichord. It’s in the music hall, but it will still have to be placed.”
“Let me take care of that,” Louna said. “You just focus on replacing your tires. Philippe, Jean-Claude—why don’t you show Mr. Ardelean your selection of flowers?”
The brothers turned to lead Cristian to the van, and he fell into friendly chatter as he went with them. Louna watched them go, allowing herself a moment to bask in the glow of a plan going well.
But it would only go well as long as she kept working, so she crossed the room and made her way into the music hall to position the harpsichord.
This room was smaller than the grand hall, its vaulted ceilings and narrow windows providing the perfect acoustics for a concert.
There were no tapestries on the stone walls, and the marble floor was left bare to keep from absorbing sound.
The light from the eastern windows cast ribbons of tiny rainbows across the floor, and she walked through them and counted the length of the echoes thrown up by her steps.
Five seconds. Not bad for a room this size.
The harpsichord sat in the middle of the room, still resting on the flat, wheeled cart used to deliver it.
It was a gorgeous piece, with curved, tapered legs made of honey-colored wood.
She imagined Tennyson at the bench, the shadows playing over his face as he coaxed a melody from the strings.
In her imagination, his expression was peaceful, his body relaxed. And his clothes fit.
Smiling at the image, she put her hand on the side of the instrument and gave a gentle, measuring push. The wheels rolled smoothly, so she set her other hand on the lid and began to carefully maneuver the harpsichord across the room.
A sharp tink was her only warning before the wood beneath her hands exploded.